


The Birthday of the Jewish Fistfighter

by trailingviolets



Category: The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Genre: Childhood Memories, Death, Expectations, F/M, Germany, Girl Secrets, Jewish Netsah, Romantic Friendship, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2297231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trailingviolets/pseuds/trailingviolets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's early spring, 1942. The sounds of air sirens are not drowned out by birdsong. The sky is consistently a grey shroud overhead. But Liesel learns Max's birthday, and knowledge is power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Birthday of the Jewish Fistfighter

_Max._

Only one word she held in her pocket walking the chilled, near-sunset streets of soot grey Molching.

Still, Liesel required only one word to fill her and in the fading light she could already see clean bowls on the counter, scrawled words on the wall, and his face.

She'd taken to sneaking him extra food in Rosa's hand-me-down apron, falling to her calves as she descended the stairs to the basement.

Last fall, Mama had scraped together enough coins for some sugar, and baked cookies so sweet...at least Liesel heard so. She brought hers to Max, trying not to read anything other than playfulness and gratitude in his dark eyes.

_A Jew._

Better yet, a _German_ Jew.

Secretly as well Liesel had learned a prayer for peace in Hebrew. She hadn't known her friend's birthday, exactly, and for that she consulted Papa.

It proved nearly impossible to find that ultimate forbidden information, but Liesel managed all the same to snatch an unmarked book from the burning heaps titled _Or Hadash_ ; one that opened from the back. This Liesel stashed quickly in her schoolbag.

Later it would be drawn out from beneath her mattress, wrapped in newspaper, and finished with a bow of coarse black yarn. The same yarn she had used that year to knit Max new clothes, a hat, a lopsided sweater, thick gloves to cover his fingers as he scrawled in the squinty darkness.

Mama observed an improvement in Liesel's knitting and became puffed with pride, pleased.

"Saumensch, wash up before dinner!"

Liesel winced at her Mama's barking, fingering the chocolate bar hidden in her outermost pocket, its wrapper shiny and new like brilliant crinkled hope.

The Book Thief knew from the rantings of Hitler Youth's Herr that sundown had marked the New Year...Rosh Hashanah. Max was born a messiah by some twisted logic, or so she suspected, observing him when he wasn't watching. All the better to l'shanah tovah in 1942.

Fixing her errant braids in the cracked glass over the sink, Liesel paused to mock her dress. Numerous holes, cracked seams, and the strain its hem made over her growing legs, protruding bits of knee and thigh. Oh well. When she descended, he was busy rubbing his hands together plaintively. Breath sickly shallow, expression light.

"Liesel, good night?" Max Vandenburg's soft voice functioning like a siren of a different sort on her focus.

The Book Thief summoned some courage in that moment for the shadow in the basement.

"L'shanah tovah..." Max's head jerked around to face hers at the greeting, tears springing to shine in those opaque eyes.

For an instant her heart dropped, and Liesel feared she had done wrong.

"Liesel...those are such kind words...for a year like this."

She noticed his cheeks flushed to the neck with that supremely human hopefulness, and like magic the Jewish Fistfighter seemed to shiver less.

"Your birthday, too, Max."

Naturally Max hadn't forgotten, but rather chose to remain in the shadows. A typical tactic of Max Vandenburg when fascinated, absorbed.

Liesel knelt with her Mama's apron heavy in her arms, leaning in with ersatz mint breath to whisper the words over and over, as Max audibly caught his breath, the moment brief and raw around them. Too soon, she sat back on her heels and took Max's cold hands.

"In the evening you pray for peace in the new year?" she murmured, unsure yet, eagerly latching onto his nod. "But I wanted to pray that next year, we'll still be together."

The tears from Max Vandenburg's eyes presented themselves in earnest, so that the only way he could show his gratitude was by smiling brittlely, gratefully. Overwhelmed laughter threatening to die in his choked-up throat.

Liesel laughed quietly with him, another gift, and the Jew closed his eyes to better feel her touch.

The Book Thief opened Max's palms, elated in such rare trust.

It tanged at first of warmth, unbearable softness. Max brought the gloves to his face and inhaled the lavender of Liesel's faux mahogany chest.

"Thank you," he whispered, and gripped their shared hands tighter.

Next was the bar of chocolate, which Max disbelieved for a moment.

His eyes almost flew open, but she was breaking it apart and telling him in the style of Rosa to "Open up!". The taste flooded over him, and before the Jewish Fistfighter could react the young German girl was wiping his mouth with a corner of her sleeve, gentle but insistent.

"Now," Liesel hesitated, "promise me you won't object?"

"Ja." Yes. He was helpless to refuse The Book Thief even to his own better judgment.

"Here you go. You can look now."

Max opened his eyes to the _Or Hadash_ , not daring to move. He almost flung it away, but found himself clutching it to his chest.

He'd never taken much stock in religions of non-humanity, but of course, it was foremost a book composed of the happy moments in his life. Holidays with mother and sisters, sitting around the fire. Jokes. Kisses. Supper in the kitchen with the fine glass...before it was sold.

Upon further inspection he discovered bundles of journal paper leaved into the pages, bookmarks almost; copied accounts from Liesel's diary. The indoor snowman. Max's fever. When the sirens went on so long and he had run into the street, wild to feel the wind. Memories of crosswords, banal, and the night they shared The Standover Man, shoulder to hand.

Friendship stretched like a branch between them, and they both smiled wide.


End file.
